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Chapter One
May’s bouquet
Lilac – Syringa vulgaris
Love’s first emotions, humility and purity.
Maythe first.Springhad arrived!Daisystood in the sunshine on the pavement ofLullburyBay’ssteep high street and unlocked the door toVaVaBloom!Itgave with a slight wheeze.Shesympathised; it was seven in the morning and she wasn’t feeling all that awake either.Behindher, someone called out a cheery hello.Turning, she put up a hand in greeting, watching as he disappeared into the alley leading to the shoppers’ car park.Talland lean, he had luxuriant dark hair.Astranger in town.Suppressingthe quick flicker of attraction, she reminded herself she’d sworn off men.
Asshe walked through the shop the air shifted and fragrance from her stock drifted up, zinging her senses awake.Shehad made the right decision to change career.Fiveyears in, the shop was easing into profit.Peoplealways wanted flowers.Nomatter howbroke folk were or how uncertain the economy, a small bunch of daffodils or a sweetly perfumed bouquet of freesias was a reasonably priced treat.Andthere were always special occasions to be marked: marriages, babies and, sadly, there were always funerals.Theshop, on the main shopping street of the little seaside town inWestDorset, attracted more than enough tourists to keep the summer busy too.
Daisyloved living and working inLullburyBay.Afterthe awfulness of the last few years, the town was shaking off the grey and depression and reviving.Notthat you could ever be depressed for long when surrounded by salty sea breezes and stunning views across the bay.She’ddefinitely seen an increase in the sort of customer who bought flowers on a whim or as a regular weekly treat on their way to the bookshop-cum-coffee shop opposite.Shewas certain this year was going to see takings soar.Atlast.
Ithadn’t been straightforward.Thepandemic, financial worries and the long days had all taken a toll.Itwas easier now she’d employedMarion, even if the woman was only in for a few hours a day.Now, on top of what had been a very steep learning curve,Daisyfelt she was hitting her stride.She’deven grown to love this quiet time when most only had enough energy to glare sleepily at their alarm clocks.Flickingon the kettle to make a much-needed coffee, she leafed through the local paper which had been shoved through her flat’s letter box.Theheadline shouted:
NINJA KNITTERS STRIKE AGAIN!
Grinning, she scanned the top news story.Thetown had been hit by the renegade knitters again.ForValentine’sDay, they had hung knitted pink hearts all around the cobbled square at the end of the promenade.LullburyBaywas divided, with some thinking these knitting graffiti artists great fun, while others thought it a disgrace.Thistime they had covered three postboxes with knitted summer scenes.Daisypeered more closely at thephotographs.Theywere like little hats stretched over the top of the postboxes; one a knitted image of a beach complete with chubby figures in old-fashioned costumes and a predatory herring gull, another had three knitted ice-cream cones and the third a fish-themed one in greens and blues complete with a dangling octopus. ‘Sweet,’ she said with a giggle, hoping she’d come across them in town.Puttingthe paper to one side she spotted the note left byMarion.
Thiscame with yesterday’s post.Imissed it – it was hidden underneath that ficusMrsCatesbyordered.Sorry!Reallygot my imagination going, sweetie.Whodo you think it’s from?
Intrigued,Daisysat down with her coffee, took the letter out of the fat envelope and read. ‘Howbizarre!Oops,’ she added, as she saw the time. ‘IfIdon’t get a move on and put some bouquets together,I’llmiss the early morning trade.’Asshe opened the door to the cold store and the sweet overpowering scent of lilies hit her, her thoughts strayed.Whocould have sent such an odd request?Thenit was dismissed as she switched on the shop radio to hear it blast out theB-52s and ‘RockLobster’, and the familiar routines of the day took over.
‘So, darling, did you read that letter?’Marionmade a dramatic appearance at eleven.Shewas that sort of person; you always knew whenMarionCrawfordwas around.Sheflung the door of the shop open, the rattling silver flower buckets and the chorus of seagull shrieks announcing her arrival.
Itwas the mid-morning lull.Timefor a break.Daisyflicked on the kettle again. ‘Yes, weird or what?’
‘SoIread it correctly.We’veto follow the monthly orders all summer?’
Daisycame to the counter whereMarionhad made herself comfortable on the stool. ‘Actually, it’s different flowers every month untilOctober.They’reto be delivered to an address inWithycombeLane.Butthe letter is headed with an office address in, hang on, where didIput it?’Daisyhunted under a pileof discarded leaves and found it. ‘Anoffice address in theMailboxinBirmingham.’Shefrowned, puzzled.
‘What, that chi-chi place?’Marionmade a face.
‘Isn’tit a post office?’
‘Notany longer, sweetie.Theyconverted the building yonks ago.Wehad a look around while ourCassiushad his interview at the university.’Marionexamined her perfectly manicured nails, today painted in a rich burgundy. ‘Ididn’t see anything worth buying but it’s where they have all those swanky designer shops and offices.’Shepulled a face atDaisy. ‘Ooh,’ she said, brightening considerably. ‘Thisguy could be rich!’
Daisylaughed. ‘Whydoes it have to be a man?’
Marionpointed a triumphant talon to the signature and printed name at the bottom of the letter. ‘MrW.Hamilton.W?’ she said, thinking hard. ‘William?Walter?Wesley?Warren?’
‘Warren?’Nowit wasDaisy’sturn to pull a face.
‘Youreally must stop judging people by their name.It’san awfully bad habit,Daisy.’
‘I’mnot judging anyone,’ she lied, knowing it was true, shewasprone to prejudging people according to their name.Marionwas right, it was a very bad habit. ‘Andwhatever his name is, with this order all summer, he’s going to bump up my profits nicely.’
‘DaisyWiscombe,’Marionsaid in despair. ‘Getyour head out of your profit and loss columns just for once.Thisis so romantic!’
Daisylooked at her employee with an exasperated fondness.Shedidn’t have much time for romance.She, quite literally, didn’t haveanytime for romance.Orany time for anything.Herbusiness was all-consuming. ‘How’sthat then?’
Marionrose to her feet and paced to and fro across the little shop, high heels tapping on the wooden floor.Thenewly arranged lilies quivered delicately as she swept past and her long, knitted coatigan threatened their petals. ‘Oh,Daisydarling, come on.Aman has paid upfront for a summer’s worth of orders, the instructions in mysterious sealed envelopes.Hecould be a lonelywidower, bereft at the loss of his wife, or a man trying to woo his long-lost love.Or,’ at this she whirled round and pointed dramatically, ‘he could have developed an infatuation for a lovely, lonely, raven-haired, blue-eyed flower seller and this is the only way he can get her attention!’
Daisylaughed, long and hard. ‘Marion, you’ve got to stop reading those romance novels.Thingslike that never happen in real life.’
‘Seriouslythough.’Marionsat back down and tookDaisy’shand. ‘Lookat these.Allchapped and work-roughened.Abouttime you treated yourself to a day at the spa with me.Allyou do is work.Where’sthe fun, the romance?’Shepeered intoDaisy’sface. ‘Andyou know, darling, you could be awfully pretty if you scrubbed up a fathom.’
‘Rude!’
